


Salvation and Damnation

by purewanderlust



Series: Love, Curiosity, Freckles, and Doubt [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean sells his soul and Sam has to learn to live with the guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salvation and Damnation

The day Sam turns 24, he wakes up alone in a rundown cabin, disoriented and sore all over. It’s not the first time he’s woken up to unfamiliar surroundings, or even the first time he’s been unable to remember how he got somewhere, but it is the first time he’s been alone when it happened. It leaves him feeling anxious, an ominous prickling in the back of his mind.

“Dean?” he asks, breaking the quiet, even though it’s obvious he’s alone. The cabin is the size of a postage stamp, and besides, Dean always makes an effort to be the first thing Sam sees after being knocked out. 

Sam levers himself up onto his elbows with a groan. His back aches fiercely and he vaguely remembers struggling with Jake and being thrown through a fence, punched so many times his head felt detached from his shoulders. The last thing he can recall is Dean running towards him, screaming his name, and then everything is just a blank.

Once the pain in his back starts to ebb to a manageable level, Sam sits all the way up. There’s a massive bloodstain on the dirty mattress, and bloody bandages in the trash can, but when Sam presses his fingers low on his back, all he finds is a new puckered scar. No stitches, no fresh blood, just a dull pain. It doesn’t make any sense. Before he can get a better look, though, the door is bursting open and Dean flies in like a whirlwind.

“Sammy?” he says, his voice cracking uncertainly. Sam doesn’t even get a chance to respond before Dean is sweeping him into his arms and squeezing him so tightly that he can’t breathe for a minute. Sam isn’t sure what to do, so he hugs his brother back on auto-pilot. They aren’t touchy-feely people, especially since he left for Stanford, but Dean doesn’t seem willing to release him, and he’s trembling slightly in Sam’s arms. 

When he finally does pull away, there’s a look on his face that Sam’s never seen before. He looks torn between desperation and relief, and he’s not quite making eye contact. The whole interaction makes Sam apprehensive and he has to tamp down on the urge to demand _what did you do?_ Instead he asks, “What happened, man?” 

Dean spins him some bullshit story, seemingly unaware of how little sense he makes, staring at Sam like he might disappear if he looks away for even a moment. Sam feels sicker and sicker with every word out of his brother’s mouth. He’s a smart guy and there’s really only one conclusion he can draw from the information he has. There isn’t time to squeeze a confession out of Dean, though, so Sam allows himself to be herded out to the Impala and takes the sandwiches and orange juice his brother offers without having to be told twice. He even stretches out in the backseat at Dean’s insistence, his brother’s leather jacket pillowed under his head. Sam eats his sandwiches quietly and lays down, pretending not to notice the way Dean’s eyes keep flicking up to stare at him in the rearview mirror. He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep, and it takes all his willpower not to throw up his dinner when he thinks about what Dean has done. 

If Sam weren’t already sure of his suspicions, seeing Bobby’s face would’ve confirmed them. The poor man looks at Sam like he’s seeing a ghost and then his eyes dart to Dean, who is staring at his boots like they’re the most interesting things in the world. 

“Thanks for patching me up, Bobby,” Sam says a little too loudly, because he knows his brother, and if Bobby brings this up now, while Dean’s defenses are sky-high, Sam is never going to get a straight answer out of him.

Luckily, Bobby understands and he plays along well enough, and when he asks Dean for a word in private, Sam just smiles like he’s clueless. Kill the demon first, deal with Dean after. Sam’s become his father and he kind of hates himself for it. 

Everything happens so fast after that. Sam takes Jake out in the cemetery and he can’t even find it in himself to feel sorry about it. This pathetic bastard is the reason Sam’s brother is going to hell and that alone is justification for putting a few more rounds in him. 

There’ s no time for dwelling on it, though, not when demons and spirits are pouring from the Hellgate, flying thick and fast on all sides. Azazel’s got Dean and Sam can’t get to them. All he can think is that the yellow-eyed son of a bitch is going to take the last thing he has left, and there’s nothing Sam can do to stop him. 

But a miracle happens. John Winchester drags himself out of hell and saves his boys one last time. Suddenly, the demon is _dead_ and Dean is staring up at Sam from behind the gun that did it, eyes wide and face streaked with blood and tears. Sam can hardly believe it, that the monster that essentially shaped their lives is gone, and Dean must feel the same way because neither one says a word. The stunned silence lingers as they stumble out of the graveyard to the car, and Bobby, Jo, and Ellen depart with encouraging nods and a pat on the back.

They make it all the way to a motel down the road and when Sam comes back with the key, Dean is still damnably silent. It’s starting to be overwhelming, all of it, and Sam has to say something. He waits until they’re in the motel room, until Dean has locked the door and turned to face him.

“Jake said he killed me, Dean,” is what comes out of his mouth and his brother flinches ever so slightly. 

“Maybe he thought he did--”

“Dude, c’mon, cut the crap,” Sam interrupts him before he can launch into another lie. “Did I...did I die?”

Dean’s face falls, unable to keep the truth from him when Sam’s asking so directly. “Sammy...”

“How long’d you get?” Sam demands.

Dean’s throat works, but he doesn’t speak for a long moment. “A year,” he says finally, flashing a rueful smile. Sam feels something inside him splinter into pieces.

“Jesus, Dean! Why would you--”

“Don’t get mad at me, Sammy,” Dean begs, his eyes swimming with tears. “Don’t you do that. What else was I supposed to do?” 

Sam can’t take it. He grabs the front of Dean’s jacket and shoves his brother bodily against the door, ignoring the pained groan Dean makes. “What about me, Dean? What am I supposed to do?” 

Dean just stares at him kind of helplessly. It’s one of the most open expressions Sam’s ever seen on him. “I had to take care of you! I couldn’t let you die, Sammy.”

Sam shakes him roughly. “You think I can let you die?” he hisses. “I won’t. They can’t have you. I’m gonna break this deal.” 

“You can’t, Sam,” Dean protests. “You’ll die if we--”

“No,” Sam cuts him off again. “They can’t have you, you’re mine.” He slams their mouths together then, so hard that he splits Dean’s lip and tastes his blood.

Dean opens up to him like he was made for it, allowing Sam to claim his mouth. Sam bites at his lips and licks across his teeth and Dean just lets him, compliant in a way Sam has never seen before.

“Sammy,” he mumbles against Sam’s lips, but Sam just kisses him again, afraid that if Dean gets the opportunity to speak, it’ll be to tell him to stop. 

“I--I can’t...Dean,” Sam stammers, shoving a thigh between his brother’s legs and pressing in as close as he can manage. Maybe if he gets close enough they’ll be one person, and his unclaimed soul will cancel out Dean’s damnation.

“Shhh, it’s okay Sammy,” Dean murmurs soothingly, and Sam presses his thigh more insistently against his brother until his platitudes get lost on a hitched breath. 

“It’s not okay,” he growls. “You sold your soul, Dean.” He’s so angry and so scared he’s insensible with it. “I’m not letting them take you.” 

Dean tries to say something else, but Sam kisses him again, hard, shoves his jacket off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. He scrabbles with the hem of Dean’s shirt for a moment and then yanks it up, only breaking the kiss to pull it over his brother’s head. Dean just goes with it, letting Sam do whatever he wants, so he shoves his brother down on the closest bed and crawls up to straddle Dean’s hips. “They aren’t getting you,” he mutters again, because it bears repeating. He nips at his brother’s collarbone and starts sucking a bruise there while he fumbles with Dean’s belt. Dean isn’t doing anything to help or hinder, just gripping Sam’s hips lightly, but Sam is shaking so much that it takes him three tries to get the buckle undone.

When he finally pulls the belt free, Dean makes a small noise and tries to reach for his face. Sam catches his hands before he can. Without even thinking about it, he loops the belt around Dean’s wrists and tightens it, pulling Dean’s arms up over his head and lashing him to the headboard.

Dean’s eyes go impossibly wide and his mouth falls open on a startled pant. Sam leans down to kiss him again, and when Dean tries to meet him halfway, the belt pulls taut around his wrists. He honest-to-god whimpers and arches against Sam, gasping into his mouth when Sam finally takes pity and kisses him again.

“Never done this before?” Sam asks, surprised, and Dean shakes his head minutely.

“Too risky,” he manages and once Sam gets his meaning, he goes hot all over.

“You mean you never trusted anyone enough.” Dean doesn’t answer, so Sam rolls his hips down into Dean’s until his eyes flutter shut and he nods. “Do you trust _me_?”

After a moment of hesitation, Dean opens his eyes again. Sam knows that at under different circumstances, Dean would make a joke out of this, pointing out that Sam’s already got him tied down so it doesn’t matter, but this situation is anything but typical. And if he’s honest with himself, Sam wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Dean doesn’t trust him with this--especially after Stanford. So it means everything to see Dean meet his gaze and nod slowly. 

Sam kisses him again, licking his way into Dean’s mouth as he divests him of boots and socks, followed quickly by his jeans and boxers. He skims his fingers lightly down Dean’s bare chest, watches the full-body shudder that works it’s way through his brother. He jerks against his bonds hard enough to yank the headboard away from the wall and it falls back with a loud thump.

Sam works his way slowly down Dean’s chest, biting and sucking bruises the whole way, staking his claim. Dean watches him intently, pupils blown so wide that his usually green eyes are almost completely black. At first, he’s completely silent, but when Sam drags a thumb across one of his nipples, Dean wrenches at the belt again and whines high in the back of his throat. After that, it’s like he can’t keep quiet anymore, moaning and babbling Sam’s name until it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. He keeps tugging at his bindings too, the arrhythmic creak-and-thump of the headboard occasionally drowning out his voice. Sam can’t even be bothered to wonder if anyone can hear them, too intent on his brother, mind a constant echoing loop of _Dean sold his soul for you, he’s gonna go to Hell because of you._

“Sammy!” Dean moans, pulling him from his thoughts. “C’mon, _please_.” 

Sam glances up at his from where he was sucking another bruise high on the inside of his brother’s thigh. Dean is trembling all over, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and straining at his bonds, completely strung out. There are bite marks and fresh bruises working their way all the way down his body, from jawline to thigh. It’s pretty much the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen and he’s suddenly lost all interest in drawing this out any longer. He pushes up from the bed, ignoring Dean’s cry of protest, staggering over to where he dropped his duffle by the door and digging in the side pocket until he finds the bottle of lube stored there. He manages to shed all of his clothes on the way back to the bed and Dean groans appreciatively when Sam settles back between his legs.

He makes quick work of prepping Dean, feeling a brief flash of guilt for how much experience he’s collected since this last happened. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, arching up when Sam crooks two fingers just right inside him, profanity spilling from his mouth. Sam curls his fingers against the spot again and watches Dean jerk against the belt, hard enough that his wrists are probably aching. 

“Sam,” Dean whines, would probably follow it up with threats or accusations of Sam being a tease any other time, but neither of them are really themselves tonight. Dean doesn’t threaten and Sam doesn’t make him wait, just slicks himself up and pushes all the way in with one brutal stroke.

Dean makes a surprised sound and hooks a leg around Sam’s waist, drawing him closer. He’s fucking beautiful like this, Sam thinks, hair a golden halo of disarray, full lips slightly parted, skin flushed brilliantly pink under his goddamn freckles. Looking at his brother, Sam’s not sure how he could ever be expected to live without him.

“They aren’t taking you away from me,” he snarls, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust. Dean gasps and turns his face away from Sam, eyes squeezed shut. “How could you, Dean?”

Dean’s mouth falls open on a broken groan, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “I--I told you. I’m not s-s-sorry.” 

Sam’s eyes flood with tears and his vision blurs, but he ignores it, drawing back and slamming in again and again. He takes up an unforgiving pace, sending Dean skidding back into the headboard with every snap of his hips. His brother whines and his hands work against the bondage, but he keeps his face turned away and his eyes closed. 

“Look at me,” Sam demands, his voice cracking, and just like that, Dan’s green eyes fly open and lock onto his. Sam’s abruptly painfully aware of the tears streaming down his face when Dean makes an aborted move to wipe them away before he remembers his hands are bound. 

“Sammy...” he starts, but Sam crushes their mouths together before he can complete the thought. For the first time all night, Dean takes control of the kiss, pulling Sam’s lower lip into his mouth and worrying at it with his tongue. It’s so unexpectedly gentle that it makes Sam shiver as he pulls back. 

“I’m gonna save you, Dean.” He says it fiercely, shoving forward again, burying himself as deep within his brother’s body as he can. Dean goes rigid and he makes a tiny, heartbreaking noise as his climax crashes over him, without Sam ever having touched him. That’s all it takes to send Sam spiraling after him, biting down on the crook of Dean’s neck as he comes, tasting blood and the salt of his own tears. 

“Hey, s’okay Sammy,” Dean murmurs, pressing his lips to Sam’s hair as best he can with his constraints. It takes Sam a few moments to realize he’s crying again, huge wracking sobs that shake his whole body. He hears Dean cursing in a low voice and sound of the headboard thunking against the wall as he struggles with the belt and then his brother’s hands are on him, easing him out and moving him to lie next to Dean. 

“Shhh, Sammy, breathe,” Dean whispers, rubbing soothing circles on Sam’s shoulder with his thumb. He leans over the edge of the bed and scoops up the nearest t-shirt and uses it to clean them both off the best he can. Sam clings to him the whole time, feeling a little childish, but he can’t stop. Dean doesn’t tease him for it, just settles back down next to him and pulls the sheets up over them and lets Sam bury his face in his shoulder.

“Go to sleep, Sammy,” he says quietly. “We’ll figure it out later.” 

Sam wants to protest, to insist they figure it out now, before the hellhounds come for Dean. But it’s been the most emotionally draining day of his life and he’s so tired. Dean is warm and reassuring at his side and it’s so easy to just let his eyes slide closed. Eventually, he stops fighting and allows himself to drift off to the sound of Dean humming some Beatles song in his ear.

When Sam wakes up the next morning, Dean is already up and dressed, at the table across the room, looking for a new hunt on the laptop. There’s fresh coffee and a bagel on the bedside table for Sam, but he doesn’t pay it any attention, a cold feeling stealing over him as he watches his brother. Dean is sitting ramrod-straight in his chair, studiously avoiding Sam’s gaze. A purpling mark peeks out from under his shirt collar, and his wrists are ringed with reddish bruises, but Dean’s expression is almost desperately nonchalant. 

“Dean...” Sam says and his brother chances a quick glance at him, eyes darting back to the computer screen before Sam can gauge his expression properly. One thing seems pretty evident, though: Dean wants to pretend last night never happened.

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat. If he doesn’t figure something out in the next three hundred sixty-four days, his brother is hellbound. And it’s not exactly like Sam asked if Dean was okay with being tied to the headboard and fucked within an inch of his life. If he wants to pretend it never happened, Sam owes him that, even if it feels like it’ll kill him.

“Sam?” Dean says, looking at him expectantly, “What is it?”

Sam swallows a couple of times and forces a weak smile. “Just wondering if you’d found a new case for us yet.”


End file.
